"So I understand that before you came to Las Vegas you made quite an impact on law enforcement in New Jersey?" Cecilia asked, pouring syrup over her blackberry crepe, looking at Jim Brass quizzically across the table.
Jim gave a wry smile. "Catherine," he mumbed, more to himself than to Cecilia. He gazed at Cecilia while he shook out a paper napkin and set it in his lap. Well, he thought, he might as well tell the story now. "Yeah, I'm a regular Serpico," he told her with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Except I'm not as good looking as Al Pacino." He winked.
I disagree, Cecilia thought, though she was too shy to verbalize it. Instead she just made a soft clicking sound with her tongue and shook her head to indicate that she thought otherwise.
Brass had had no idea what Flap Jacks would be like. It turned out to be a fifties style diner, all imitation red leather and chrome, the servers all looking like the ensemble cast from Grease, the men with slicked back hair, ducktails, jeans and white tees, the women with bubblegum pink dresses, little white aprons, saddle shoes and hair in pony tails. All that they needed was the roller skates to really cement the time warp. It was kind of kitschy, Brass thought, but Cecilia had laughed with delight and seemed to think the place had a certain charm.
All that they served, all day long, was a variety of pancakes, waffles and crepes. Including combinations that he had never imagined before. Such as the pineapple coconut pankcakes and the canoli crepes. It wasn't the ideal 'first date' but Jim was just happy to be with Cecilia.
Jim took a swig of his coffee, gathering his thoughts for a moment. Going back to that pivotal period in his life...taking that journey back in time...was far more difficult than he ever let on. "It was about twenty years ago," he began. "I'd been with the Atlantic City PD for a few years by then. It was the first force I joined, back when I was still an idealistic kid. I don't know if you've been there, but Atlantic City is on Abescon Island, just off the Jersey shore. Nancy and I lived in Margate, another town on the island. I told you my dad was a cop too, though he worked with a smaller detachment. Port Norris, where I grew up. It's just a little fly speck of a town. Dad was a New Jersey State Trooper. He was retired by the time all of this went down." Brass's dark eyes took on a faraway look as he thought about his father, who had passed away three years ago. "He's dead now, heart attack a few years back."
"I'm sorry," Cecilia murmured.
Jim nodded his acknowledgement of the condolences. "Anyhow, back in those days, the early and mid-eighties, there was a problem in the ACPD. Dirty cops in the pocket of the mob. Guys paid to look the other way. Corruption all the way up to the Chief of Police. It wasn't all of the guys, or even most of the guys. But it was there.
"To understand everything, you have to realize what was happening in America at this point in time, and in law enforcement, from local to state to national. In the seventies, pot was the big problem drug. The importation of pot was more or less successfully squelched by the early eighties. To make it profitable, marijuana had to be smuggled into the U.S. in large bales, which were easier to catch. About a third of the pot shipped into the U.S. in the mid-eighties was getting intercepted.
"So while it was harder to get weed, at the same time cocaine was getting cheaper and more available. It was easier to conceal. There was a techonology being used in the Bahamas to turn it into crack, and that became the new big drug here, selling at the lower end of the scale. By eighty-nine the price of coke would be less than half what it was in seventy-nine."
Brass paused, remembering some of the scenes he had been called to in his rookie years, where cocaine had been a factor in the commission of a crime. He recalled the sad addicts, and the desperate families. The ruined lives.
Cecilia waited while Jim ate a few forkfuls of his buttermilk pancakes. She remembered being in college, and the first time that someone had offered her the drug at a party. She had declined, having no interest in illegal drugs, though she hadn't minded the mood altering properties of alcohol. She had been more or less responsible with her consumption, however, always having been what her roommate teasingly referred to as a 'goody two shoes'. But there had been quite a few students of her acquaintance who had been turned on to coke.
She listened as Jim went on to describe the drug and how it was affecting society. Cocaine, known by a variety of names on the street, including coke, C, snow, blow and Bolivian marching powder, could be inhaled, ingested, smoked, or taken intravenously. It was considered the most addictive substance known to man. Though it had started out as a white-collar drug of choice, soon it was found at all socio-economic levels. Cheap crack became the bane of inner cities.
While other well-known drugs, such as opium, heroin and morphine were depressants, cocaine was a stimulant. It was similar to getting a massive jolt of adrenaline, and had the user feeling unusually confident, alert and energetic. It had an effect on the so-called 'pleasure circuits' of the brain. A high might last from ten minutes to half an hour. Coming down meant anxiety, depression and an overwhelming urge for the next hit.
"Coke, most of which was produced in Columbia, became the drug of choice for many Americans," Brass continued. "Law enforcement declared a war on drugs. In the mid-eighties prisons were overflowing because of the minimum-mandatory drug sentences that had been passed. Perps of other crimes saw their own sentences reduced, and got undeserved early paroles, because there just wasn't room to house them. We're even talking violent crimes, and repeat offenders who were a danger to society. Their crimes didn't have mandatory minimums, and so much focus was on drugs, that they just lucked out. Cocaine was becoming more and more of a problem though. We saw the rise of 'crack whores', trading sex for drugs, and 'cocaine kids' started showing up in large numbers in the early eighties.
The detective told Cecilia about a Massachusetts study of the time that suggested a quarter of all high school seniors had used coke. And about incidents that showed it was prevalent even in the armed forces, in the ranks of the police department, among housewives and CEOs. It was the drug that knew no boundaries. Jim paused, looking at Cecilia who sipped a glass of tomato juice. "This isn't exactly fun conversation," he told her apologetically.
"I'm interested in the whole story," Cecilia assured him.
"Most countries in South and Central America had some connection to the drug trade. You had the major drug cartels who also influenced those areas politically, actually controlling them in some instances. Even if coke wasn't actually being processed, many countries were transshipment points. The main port of entry into the U.S. was through Miami. From there it came up the coast to Atlantic City." Jim took another few mouthfuls of his pancakes. "These are pretty good," he allowed. "How's yours?"
Cecilia smiled. "Delicious."
"So, that's the background. In Atlantic City, as elsewhere, there was this big push to fight the war on drugs, even at the expense of other problems. Voters indicated to politicians that they wanted something done. There was a lot of pressure on law enforcement to do something about the availability and usage of drugs. Things such as property crimes seemed to pale in comparison, and barely warranted an investigation. All of the manpower and resources went into fighting drugs. Paid informants would trade addresses where there was illegal activity, in exchange for cash. Half the time they were high themselves, and sometimes they gave wrong addresses. But those were mostly in the poor part of town, so there wasn't too big of an outcry when a mistake was made.
"We did a lot of what we called 'no knock' raids," Jim explained. "We'd just bust into an apartment, kicking the door down without warning. It gave us the element of surprise which was a lot safer." But not always safe, Jim knew. He'd broken down doors before to come face to face with a junkie pointing a loaded gun in his face. And he knew a cop who'd been killed during a no knock. When you just never knew was was going to be on the other side of the door, you could never get the ice out of your gut. Because as the good guys, they couldn't just shoot without ascertaining what the situation was. The bad guys though knew that when someone was breaking down the door that their speed with the trigger and their markmanship might be the only thing between them and freedom. And they had no such compunction about shooting first and asking questions later.
"We made a ton of arrests, and got a lot of convictions. Except...all we seemed to be doing was getting the little guys. There just never seemed enough evidence to prosecute the major players. There was always something...some procedural mistake that meant evidence was dissallowed. Or evidence itself would go missing. Or the D.A.'s office just never thought there was enough to prosecute. It became frustratingly obvious that there was a fix in. Someone was on the payroll. Once in a while a minor dealer would get sent away, just for appearances, usually someone who had ticked off the mob. But there were the untouchables, and nothing we were doing was having any real impact on the problem." Brass frowned at the memory, feeling the old anger and resentment again.
"The mob was still pretty big in AC. They'd come in with the casinos originally, and stuck around. They were more low key than in the early days. And hard to ferret out because of all of their legit activities. But everyone knew who was who and what was up. The same guys who muscled and controlled other aspects of the game, and had already made their bones, had their hands in the drug business too. They also had the buy in at the precinct, and again though there were all kinds of rumours, there was nothing anyone could prove.
"Nationally, the Kingpin Program in Latin America, that went after the major cartel operators, had a trickle down affect to state and local enforcement at home. There was money, new and needed resources, for stings and undercover operations. We had a captain, Ken Kraus, who was a good cop, a stand up guy, and he knew that we had to clean up our own house before we'd ever make a dent in the drug problem. So, he approached me, and it was arranged I'd go undercover, to try to ferret out who on our side was dirty, by trying to work my way into the mob."
Brass signaled one of the waitresses who refilled his coffee. He took a long swallow. "Well, my cover was blown before I even got out of the gate. There were only a couple of guys in the precinct who knew what was up, but one of them talked. My first night trying to make contact, I almost got taken out. It was just dumb luck that I wasn't killed. Took a bullet to the shoulder. All I remember is standing there in the dark alley, trying to set up a buy, then waking up in the hospital, my chest wrapped in bandages." He shrugged off the seriousness of the event.
"Oh my gosh!" Cecilia blurted, feeling sick at the idea that Jim could have been killed. Even though this had occured two decades ago, she couldn't believe how cavalier he seemed about having been shot.
Brass took in the wide-eyed shock in her dark eyes. He read the concern on her lovely features. Even though it had been a long time ago, and he'd made a full recovery, knowing that she cared warmed him. "Just wasn't my time, I guess," he commented philosophically. "I didn't suffer any ill effects. Just a nasty scar. They removed the bullet. It hadn't damaged anything major. As it turned out, my getting shot was actually the break we needed.
"Kraus came to me, and we hatched a plan. We were going to put out the word that I was one of the dirty cops. In essence, it was to appear that someone on the inside was framing me. The incident would ruin my career. Kraus transfered to another Jersey PD, and the story was that he'd been run out of town, scared that whoever was engineering my troubles, might target him next. So, without stepping up to my defense, it would look like he'd cut and run, leaving me to hang. We brought in the feds and no one outside of their agents, Kraus and myself knew what was up. Back at the precinct there was talk of prosecution and jail time for my part in 'illicit activities'.
"When you try to kill a man, you make an enemy. You give him incentive to come after you. When you ruin his name, take away what he loves most, you deflate and emasculate him.
"The Chief of Police, Bernie Demato, a smug son-of-a-gun, gave me the option to quit quietly, and fade away, and not face any charges. He made it clear that they had all kinds of fabricated evidence that would put me away for a long time. So, I pretended to fight the righteous fight for a bit, before coming to my senses, realizing it was a losing battle, and that if I was smart I'd just slink away and be grateful to have my life, even if I no longer had my career."
It had been a good plan, Jim reminisced. There was so much confusion, and it was so hard to know who you could trust and who you couldn't at that point, that even the cops who initially had stood by him, when confronted with all of the planted evidence, began to wonder if it wasn't true that Jim Brass was a dirty cop. It had been hard for him to watch the men he cared for doubt him, and to know that he had lost their respect and their friendship.
"So, I became the bitter ex-cop who began to drink and hang around the bars and was heard plotting ways to get even and to stick it to the ACPD any way I could. Because of the delicateness of the operation, and the possible danger to those involved, not just me but the DEA guys, and Kraus, I couldn't tell anyone the truth. Not my parents, or my brother. Not my wife, Nancy. Because one slip up could jeopardize the whole thing. And it was important to be as convincing as possible."
Cecilia frowned. "That must have been difficult," she said compassionately. "Especially having to keep that kind of a secret from your wife."
Jim sighed. "To tell you the truth, by that point our marriage was already in deep trouble. It wasn't as hard not to bring her in on things, as it could have been." He recalled the fights that they had had once he had 'resigned' from the force. When he had failed to find another job right away, and had instead begun spending time at the bars, Nancy had been furious and demeaning. She never could have put on as convincing an act if she had known the truth, and it was important for his disillusionment to appear genuine to those who might be monitoring the situation.
"Eventually," Brass continued, "the charade paid off. I was approached by a detective on the force. Mike O'Toole. He just happened to see me in the bars on a couple of different occasions, bought me a few drinks, commiserated with me. Let me spew about the force and how trying to do things the 'right way' never paid and stuff like that. I guess while he was sounding me out, he had other people investigating me.
"Finally, O'Toole told me he had a way for me to get back on my feet, and to screw over the ACPD. He buttered me up, saying a guy with my skills, knowledge and street connections had what it took to be somebody in this town. He convinced me that I deserved to live the good life, and that there was a way to recoup the respect I'd lost. He more or less told me that the mob could use someone like me to further its drug interests, and that a smart guy could work his way up in the organization.
"I listened, but couldn't appear too over eager. He knew that I wasn't really a bad cop but had been set up, and that somewhere underneath there would still probably be a man who would rebel at being a part of what he'd been fighting against for so long. So I turned him down the first time, acted PO'd, said I didn't want to hear about that, and couldn't be a part of something as ugly as drugs. And I left the bar."
"A couple of weeks later, he approached me again, with a couple of friends. They gave me the sales pitch, and I imagine it was the same one they used to get a lot of guys to turn, or to look the other way. It was a whole spiel about how human beings have a need, a natural drive to pursue an altered state to make ourselves feel better and to deal with the harsh realities of our lives." Brass gave a gruff laugh. "O'Toole said that just about everyone depended on some kind of drug or the other, from that first cup of java in the morning.
"He pointed out how alcohol is an accepted part of our society, and how many people were getting rich off of that, legally, while alcohol was responsible for more problems, heartaches, ruined lives and deaths in this country than all illegal drugs combined. And then there was tobacco, and although people were getting more educated and starting to speak out in it's usage, it was still widely used and available for a legal, acceptable buzz. But alcohol and tobacco were safe havens, out of the combat zone in the war on drugs, and happily and respectably legal. Even though the tolls they take on society were just as bad, if not worse, than the effects of pot or cocaine. The only reason the government was involved, or fighting this at all, was because they were ticked they weren't getting their piece of the pie.
"I had to hand it to him," Jim commented, "it was a real convincing line. O'Toole was smooth, a born salesman, a good looking guy, clean cut, who came across as non-threatening and trustworthy. And there was enough truth in what he had to say, that I could see how some guys could set aside their moral objections. Especially cops who risked their lives every day, for next to nothing in the way of pay, and precious little thanks and respect from the communities they served. Especially when it seemed that people wanted, even needed something to make themselves feel better. How bad could it be, really? And who were we to judge that someone snorting coke was a 'criminal' while someone who liked to toss back a few shots of JD, and inhale a little tobacco, was not?
"He had all kinds of studies and info. He pointed out that in New York City, that while forty percent of homicides were directly tied to the trading of illegal drugs, less than eight percent could be traced to the psychopharmacaological properties of the drugs. Alcohol, on the other hand, was involved in eighty percent of the homicides caused by drug use. So booze was more dangerous, even though it was legal.
"The truly innocent people were being killed by those under the influence of alcohol, not illegal drugs. Those the most negatively affected by coke were those involved in its trade, not its usage. People who were bad elements anyways. When you really looked at it, focusing all of that energy on fighting illegal drugs, when people were ruining their lives and killing themselves and others through the use of alcohol, was not only pointless, it was sanctimonious." Brass remembered sitting in the smokey bar with O'Toole and his buddies. Pretending to consider the other man's words. Seeming to allow his natural objections to be circumvented.
Cecilia considered the arguments and that small thread of logic that ran through them. It was scary, how rational it seemed to consider that cocaine was just another alternative to coffee and cigarettes and that no one was really hurt by it. "How cunning," she said quietly. "Don't just appeal to a man's greed, but to his morality."
"Yeah," Brass agreed. "So I let him convince me that by being on the inside, by being one of the guys in control, I could actually do some good for people. I could ensure that people weren't pushing at schools, or hanging around playgrounds, involving kids before they were old enough to know what they wanted and to make their own decisions. But adults, he said, should have a choice. It was practically guaranteed in the constitution, as far as he was concerned. By the time O'Toole was done he had me pumped up as a freakin' Lone Ranger. Martyr and saviour."
Jim continued. "Two weeks later, behind on my mortgage, bills piling up, Nancy on my case, I went to O'Toole and told him I'd give it a try." Brass could still see the knowing smile on O'Toole's face. "He was the liason, making the contacts for me. It took about six months to really work my way inside. I was surprised at how easy it was for Nancy to look the other way. On one hand, she sensed what I was getting into. On the other hand, the money was coming in, and our financial troubles were over, so she didn't ask too many questions. During that time, I did a lot of things that I'm not proud of. I had to break the law, to prove my loyalty. There were certain expectations of behaviour. There was a lot of drug use in the ranks. I wouldn't touch coke, but I did do pot, to fit in. There were...other things that I did, to put on a convincing act."
Cecilia watched as Jim stared down at his plate, seeming to struggle with himself for a moment, waging an internal debate. When he looked up at her again, there was a conviction in his dark eyes.
"I guess I'll just lay everything on the table. I really want to get to know you better, Cecilia, and I want you to know me. The real me. Not just the pretty stories and the things I'm proud of," Jim told her quietly. "Just remember that this was another lifetime ago, and different circumstances. For all intents and purposes, I was a different man."
Cecilia felt a nervous flutter, wondering what he was going to tell her next. Wondering if it might so negatively impact what she thought about him, that this would not only be their first date, but their last. She admired his desire to be honest and open with her, and appreciated the respect that it indicated, even as part of her wanted to tell him that some secrets might be best left buried. Because Cecilia didn't want anything to ruin the way she felt when she was with Jim Brass. But if this was something that he felt was important for her to know, to better understand what had been in his past and had helped shape the man he was today, then Cecilia knew that it was worth the risk of his telling her. Her mouth felt too dry to speak, so she only nodded.
"So, there was lots of drinking," Jim said lowering his voice. "Some drugs. Heavy partying. Lots of money to toss around. And there were always girls, beautiful and available." Cecilia sensed what was coming. "The first time, I was almost pass-out drunk. Not that that's an excuse. It was the first time I'd ever cheated on Nancy. The remorse hit me the next day, waking up in the motel with that woman in the bed beside me. I couldn't even remember her name." Jim wondered if Cecilia was of the school of thought 'once a cheater always a cheater'. He wondered if she would politely thank him for breakfast, then just get up and walk out of his life. Or maybe hear him through, but any burgeoning feelings she'd had for him would be shattered, and this newfound closeness would melt away like an icecube on the strip in midday July. "But after that first time...it was easy to justify it to myself. It was just part of my job. I was playing a role. There was a higher purpose here. And anyways, my marriage was on a downward slide. Being in that deep kept me away from home a lot. When I was there, Nancy and I had nothing to say to one another, unless we were fighting. I figured there was no point in risking my life and my cover by clinging to some antiquated vows to a woman who lately couldn't even stand the sight of me.
"There were a lot of lines that blurred, I found, as time went on. After those first six months, I gained real confidences. They began to trust me. Gave me more responsibility in the organization. I made a trip down to Bolivia to see things for myself. About nintey percent of all the coca leaf in the world was found in the mountains of Bolivia and Peru. It was so much a part of the culture, moreso than I'd ever imagined. Hundreds of thousands of people made a living from coca farming. I went to Honduras a couple of times too, where they were still a big cultivator of pot, and where a lot of coke was still routed to and shipped from, slipped on board commercial flights during stopovers. About nine months after I'd first been approached by O'Toole, I took the scariest trip of my life, to Columbia."
Jim could still feel the sick worry that had plagued him the moment the plane had touched down in Columbia. It had been an entirely different world. Every single person he came into contact with was a potential danger to his life. One mistake, one misstep, and one of the heavily armed enforcers would have no problem putting a bullet in his skull, and dumping his body in jungle so dense he'd never be found. The men he met in that country were crueler than any of the others. Sharper. With flint-eyed gazes that seemed to look into a man's soul. Jim had said little, expressed no visible interest in anything around him, and stayed as much in the background as he could, while the mob guy he'd come down with did the negotiating with the local drug lord. All the while Jim dreaded that someone would smell his fear. Would sense the deception.
"It was quite an education, to see how it all worked with my own eyes. On the U.S. end, the Customs Service only had fourteen aircraft to try to stop an estimated eighteen thousand drug flights into the country each year. In eighty-two Reagan had created a cabinet-level task force, headed by VP George Bush, that combined the agents from the DEA, the FBI, the IRS, Customs, as well as the Army and Navy to try to fight drug trafficking in through South Florida. It was this group that Kraus and I were working with, while trying to clean up the corruption on our own force.
"The Atlantic City mob was working with the Medellin cartel. By eighty-two, there was an alliance between Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lehder, Jose Gacha and the Ochoa family, that formed the cartel. They ran most of the fifty or so cocaine labs that existed then in Columbia. In eighty-two, Escobar cut a deal with Manuel Noriega, allowing the cartel to ship cocaine through Panama. It happened to be the year, Escobar was elected to the Columbian congress by buying votes through building low-income housing in the slums.
"Also at about that same time, $100 million worth of cocaine, that's wholesale value, was seized at Miama International Airport. It was the first clue the task force had that Columbia's biggest drug traffickers were working together. That would later be confirmed in March of eighty-four when the DEA and Colombian police discovered Tranquilandia, a jumgle complex that included more than a dozen labs containing almost fourteen metric tons of cocaine. Later that year a Miami federal grand jury indicted Escobar, Lehder, Gacha and Jorge Ochoa on the strength of evidence gathered by DEA informant Barry Seal who had infiltrated the cartel."
"Some of this sounds familiar, from the news of the time," Cecilia mused, "but I never would have been able to put it all in context."
"It's different, I guess, when you live it," Brass reflected. "Then it's something you'll never forget. I actually met Seal when I was in Colombia, though at the time I didn't know who he was. Seal was assasinated in Louisiana by cartel gunmen, two years after the trial." Soberly he finished his breakfast, then laid his utensils on the plate and pushed it off to the side.
"So that's what was going on in the world in the bigger war. In the smaller war, I was still just a bit player. The DEA guys were interested in the drug angle, and I gave them what I could. The wild parties, the illegal stuff, all of that activity was during my time spent with the mob guys. While that was all evidence for the task force, for myself I was gathering evidence on O'Toole, the Chief and others in the force who had connections to the mob."
Jim's eyes were even darker with sorrowed shadow. "I was an outsider. The mob guys were always slightly suspicious because I'd once been a cop. All of my old friends wanted nothing to do with me. It just seemed natural for me to gravitate to the very guys that I was investigating. We had a lot in common afterall. They were PD, and though they were tied up with the mob, a lot of the time they were just plain cops most of the time, doing the same job that every other cop was. Except there were occasions when they looked the other way. When they made a quick phone call to warn someone that something was going down. But basically we spoke the same language. Had an understanding.
"When I mentioned that lines became blurred...it's hard to explain just what that meant. I knew that I had a job to do and that it was an important one. But when you're in that situation, living it day in, day out, and you get to know the people involved as individuals...sometimes it's hard to remember who the bad guys are and who the good guys are. Because even though they were dirty cops, they weren't mob. They didn't have any hands on with the drugs or any of the mob operations.
"They came to trust me, and to befriend me, and though I had to exploit that, there was a part of me that always hated myself for the deception. I knew what they were, but I also got to know who they were, and I found that it wasn't always easy to reconcile the two." Jim let that hang in the air, sipping the coffee, resting his vocal chords for a bit. He wasn't normally a chatty guy and couldn't remember the last time he'd monopolized a conversation this way. Talking about all of this now with Cecilia, even though he usually kept these memories buried, brought them all to the fore, where they taunted him.
"They'd treat me like a friend. I'd go to Sammy's house a lot. Sammy McCann, he was a lieutenant with ACPD. He'd have me over for bbqs, and I got to meet and spend time with his family. He had three kids, the nicest kids you'd ever want to meet. One of them, the youngest girl, Tania, had CF. With the money that Sammy was getting from the mob, he didn't buy a bigger house, or fancy clothes and fast cars. He used it so his wife Rose could quit work to take care of Tania. And he put it into pursuing different treatment options that he'd hear about from all over the globe, that were still experimental. And he made sure that kid had everything a child could want that money could buy."
Jim could hear Sammy's voice, telling him about the constant struggle to keep Tania healthy and comfortable. There had been the daily chest physiotherapy, involving vigorous massage to help loosen the sticky mucus that plagued the child's lungs. With every meal or even the smallest snack, Rose had to give her daughter capsules to supply the missing pancreatic enzymes to aid her digestive system. There were anti-asthma inhalers, vitamin supplements, medicines to help relieve the persistent contispation, and oxygen to help with the girl's breathing. Sammy's awe for his wife's strength in dealing with Tania's illness, and in his child's ability to take and give joy while fighting the horrible disease, and his diligent prayers that one day soon a cure would be found for cystic fibrosis, had impressed Jim.
"It was hard, to see him with those kids, and to see how much they worshipped him, and to see how much he loved them. It was painful to realize how much it broke his heart to know his little girl was on borrowed time. I had to keep reminding myself that what Sammy, Mike and the others were doing was wrong. That there was no way to justify it, and that dirty was dirty. They had a choice, and they chose to sell out. There were lots of hard luck stories out there, but other cops managed to keep their integrity.
"Still...I don't think I can ever explain how absolutely torn I was. These guys...they became my friends. Sammy, I knew, would give his life for mine." There were tears in Jim's eyes. He looked desperately at Cecilia, willing her to comprehend what it had been like. "I know how that sounds. And that anyone on the outside couldn't possibly ever understand. Hell, I don't understand it myself. They were criminals and they were breaking the law and their actions affected innocent lives. But when you're all caught up in the middle of it, your gut can get so twisted around, and you get so deep into the game, that you begin to lose your perspective."
Cecilia could see how difficult it was for Jim to share this story with her. To see the shine of the tears in his eyes, caused her own throat to go tight. She was wholly engrossed in the tale, sometimes thinking that it sounded like the plotline for a major motion picture that he was recounting for her, and finding it hard to remember that this was a true story, and that the detective had lived it. She would try to focus on imagining Jim Brass as a younger man, experiencing everything that he was telling her about now. Cecilia could see by the intense concentration on his face that this retelling was gut-wrenching, costing him far more than she could have imagined when she first asked her question. But she couldn't find the words to tell him to stop. He had to tell it, all of it, and Cecilia had to hear it.
"After the members of the Medellin cartel were indicted, the president's task force did a huge sweep across the nation. The DEA guys I'd been reporting to moved in on the mob. I had enough evidence to identify the corrupt cops on the force, and it was time for Kraus to crack things open. It all went down so fast. O'Toole, Sammy, the Chief and four other cops were arrested and charged.
"The mob was busy with troubles of their own, so they abandoned their boys, knowing the gig was up anyways. They weren't interested in me, I wasn't a threat to them and wouldn't be testifying on that end, so there was no need for protective custody. All seven cops were charged, and two made deals by turning state's evidence. O'Toole, Sammy, Chief Demato, and two sergeants, Fisk and Lang, all got hard time.
"I thought that it would be a relief when everything came out. I thought my name woud be cleared of the old suspicions. I knew I'd be reinstated. I guess I imagined I'd just walk back into the precinct and put my old uniform back on, and go back to work. I didn't envision any ticker parades but I wasn't prepared for the animosity. I was persona non grata. Even though no one liked the idea of a dirty cop, no one could quite accept the idea of turning your back on the brotherhood either and selling out your buddies. It had to be done, sure, but no one was going to forgive you for it."
Cecilia felt the anger surge to hear how the very people that Jim Brass had risked everything for, including his life, for the reputation of the department, and for all the men and women who worked there...had treated him so shabbily. The cruel unfairness of it had her clenching her hands in her lap.
He continued. "The trial was horrible. I'd give my evidence, and sit there on the witness stand, and every day Sammy would look at me with this sad dog look, like a stray just waiting to be kicked again. Like he couldn't believe what was happening, or that I'd been the one to stab him in the back. There was no sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I wasn't proud of myself. I wasn't ashamed either. I was just... I dunno. I didn't feel anything. Empty I guess.
"There was a big shake up. Lots of changes in the department. I was invited to Washington to get a presentation from the task force, but I never went. I just didn't feel like I deserved any kind of reward. I had done worse things than most of the things the other guys had done, that had ended them up in prison. Only because of which side I was on, it was okay for me.
"When Sammy was in his second year of prison, Tania died of the CF, after complications from a respiratory infection. He applied for a special pass on compassionate grounds, to get out temporarily for the funeral. But it was denied. The prison board decided that he was too big of a flight risk. And that with his mob connections, and the potential for their assisting in an escape, it would be too dangerous for any officials who accompanied him. I pleaded his case. Volunteered to accompany him and said I could handle it alone. But it was no use."
Cecilia watched the Adam's apple bob in Jim's throat as his voice became hoarse. His bottom lip trembled, and a muscle in his jaw jerked spasmodically. She could see the raw emotion in his dark eyes, and her heart ached for him. It took a few moments before the detective could resume speaking. "All I could think about what how much he loved that little girl, and how gentle he was with her, and how she thought he'd hung the moon. I thought about how hurt and confused she must have been when her daddy got put in prison. I heard it broke Sammy's heart not to be able to say good bye."
There were tears on Jim's cheeks, and he wiped at them with his right hand, automatically, not seeming to consciously realize they were there. "So even though I won in the end, I didn't really win. There was an overhaul on the force. Lots of changes were made. New people came in. Someone else was promoted to chief. The mayor gave me a key to the city. I was in uniform again, and the other guys respected the badge, but no one wanted anything to do with me. It's like I was invisible.
"Two years later, I transfered, thinking it might give me a fresh start. But there was no where I could go in Jersey, that my rep wouldn't follow me. Finally, I ended up in Vegas, drawn by the familiarity of another resort town and the bright lights and casinos. The geographical distance allowed for emotional distance and though what happened in Atlantic City got around, for the most part it didn't have a negative impact on my life and job here.
"And there you have it. That's the Jersey story. I can imagine how 'David and Goliath' Catherine made it sound...lone cop takes on corrupt force...but she doesn't know the whole of it. It's not really so heroic after all, is it?"
Jim tried to smile, but failed, and the pain in his crumpled features touched Cecilia's soul. She reached across the table and took his right hand, holding it firmly in her own. "I think it's very heroic," she said quietly, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "And brave and sad and incredible and unfair. I can't imagine being in that position." Despite how furiously she was blinking her smoky lashes, Cecilia felt the tears spill onto her bronze cheeks. "I'm so sorry. That I brought it up. That you had to go through all of that. Then and now." Her heart swelled with emotion. "I think you are an incredible man, Jim Brass."
Her words released him from the burden of his worry about how Cecilia would react to the truth of his past. Jim felt the crushing weight that had been compressing his lungs, lifted. He held tightly to her hand, the solidity of the connection helping to bring him back fully to the present and to leave old demons behind. "I'm not sorry that you brought it up," he said quietly. "I wanted you to know." Because I think that you are pretty incredible, Cecilia Laval, and because you make me feel a way I thought I'd never feel again. And because I want to get this right.
Jim didn't release Cecilia's hand, instead holding it in his as he left money for their breakfast on the table, fumbling in his wallet with his other. He held her hand tightly when she bent to retrieve her purse. And when they left the restaurant, and walked out into the bright morning sunlight, he continued to hold it as they crossed the lot. She seemed content to let him do so, holding onto to him just as tightly in return.
When they got to her car, Jim's cell phone began to ring. He flipped it open, bringing it to his ear, his dark eyes holding hers warmly. "Brass," he said.
It was Gil. "Jim, it's me. I looked at that report, and just wanted to give you a quick call. I'm going home to catch a few hours sleep, then my flight to Reno leaves this evening. I know it's important to you so I wanted to talk to you before I leave."
"Look Gil, can I call you back in a few minutes?" Brass asked. Cecilia shook her head quickly and mouthed the words 'take the call'. "Hold on," Brass amended. "It's okay. What's up?"
Cecilia slipped her hand from Jim's and walked slowly over to the boulevard where jasmine trailed a small fence, giving the detective some privacy while she inhaled the fragrant blooms.
"There's nothing there that sends up any red flags," Grissom was saying. "It's almost a text book case of careless smoking, compounded by improper use of a sleep aid. Dalmane is actually flurazepam, a commonly prescribed benzodiazepine derivative."
"Whatever that means," Brass replied.
Grissom continued. "It's a hypnotic agent. One of the positives about it and what makes it a good drug, is that it doesn't seem to decrease REM sleep, which is so important for our overall health. It does decrease sleep latency though, and the number of nightly wakenings, and results in increased total sleep time. Normally, it induces sleep within twenty minutes, and provides roughly eight hours of rest."
"And did you just know all of this off the top of your head?" Brass asked curiously.
"Kind of, but I looked it up, got a refresher," Gil answered. "The important thing is that flurazepam is rapidly absorbed from the gastrointestinal tract, and rapidly metabolized. It also takes up to one hundred hours to metabolite, so you get a cumulative effect with peak hypnotic results coming after a few nights of usage. The girlfriend confirmed that Keeth had been using it all week. Add the alcohol on top of that, and he would have been totally out shortly after taking the pills. If he hadn't been smoking he would just have had a nice long rest. Add cigarettes to the mix and you end up with a clear accidental death. Sadly one that would have been totally preventable.
"But everything checks out. The prescence and level of drug and alcohol in his system. The lack of accelerant. The fast burn of the foam of the sofa. They aren't even making furniture out of the stuff any more for just that reason," Grissom informed him. "There's nothing suspicious here at all, Jim. Not a single thing."
Brass was watching Cecilia cupping the white blossoms in her hand and lowering her face to them. She looked so lovely standing there. He pulled his attention back to the call. "Well, thanks for going over it for me," he told the scientist. "I guess that answers that. Maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my old age."
"Glad to help," Gil told him. "I'll see you when I get back."
"Have a good trip," Brass told him, then hung up the phone. "Cecilia," he called gently. She looked up at him, smiling and moved back to the car. "Look," Jim said, "pancakes wasn't what I originally had in mind. I'd like to take you out someplace nice. For dinner." He grinned at her. "Though I'm glad that we had this morning." She smiled. "I know Catherine's off Thursday night, so I figure you probably are too. I have the memorial service in Laughlin during the day. But would you do me the pleasure of joining me for dinner that evening?"
"I'd love too," Cecilia answered.
"I have to run into work for a couple of hours," Jim said regretfully, "and I'm sure you're probably tired. So I'll see you then. I'll pick you up at your place, around eight?"
"I look forward to it," Cecilia told him.
Jim reached for her hand again, this time taking one in each of his, holding them down between them. He squeezed them softly, then leaned in towards her. They were about the same height, and his forehead touched hers. They stood that way for a moment, their eyes closed. "Take care," he said.
Cecilia nodded, getting in behind the wheel. "Til Thursday."
Back at the lab, Grissom slipped the last of the reports into the outbox on his desk, then rose from his chair, grabbing his briefcase. Things were reasonably caught up for a few days. Catherine could deal with anything that needed immediate attention in his abscence. A sharp rap at the door made him look up. Sara stood there, outlined by the flourescent glow from the hall.
"Hey, Sara," Gil greeted with a smile. "You just caught me. What can I do for you."
There was something about the look on her face that set warning bells ringing inside his head. Sara crossed the room, her mouth in a grim line, her dark eyes cool, handing him the envelope.
"What's this?" he asked curiously.
"My resignation," Sara replied.
The laughter died on his lips when she didn't break immediately into a grin. Quickly he extracted the sheet of paper inside, and his blue eyes scanned the page. Ice water coursed through his intestines. "Two weeks?" he demanded hotly. "How am I supposed to replace you in two weeks? That's not very responsible, Sara!"
Sara was taken aback by his anger. That was all that he had to say to her? To bitch that he might not be able to hire someone else soon enough? "You've always said this is the best lab in the country," she reminded him tightly. "I'm sure if that's the case you'll have all kinds of applicants to choose from."
"Well, that doesn't mean they'll be ready to report to work within fourteen days!" Grissom insisted. "Interviews will have to be arranged. Whoever I get will want to give decent notice so that their current position can be filled, and they won't leave their team high and dry. Most people are a little more professional than that."
The implication made Sara furious. She grabbed the letter from his hands, and pen from the holder on his desk. Laying down the computer printed letter, she scratched off her final date of work, and extended it two additional weeks. "There," she said, thrusting it back at him. "You've got a month." Sara turned and stalked out of the room.
Gil held the piece of paper in his hand. He stared at it blankly. He had been totally unprepared for this. And the final line had been the one that had scared him, prompting his outburst. C.C. Sheriff Brian Mobley. This was no game. No joke. Sara was quitting. This wasn't like her request for a leave of abscence that time, where he had been able to change her mind. She had sent this exact same letter to the Sheriff. It was done. Sara Sidle was leaving.